


Impatiens

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-16
Updated: 2003-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-20 12:23:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11335569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A night spent in the cell in Tunguska.





	Impatiens

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Impatiens

### Impatiens

#### by Marcia Elena

  


Title: Impatiens 

Author: Marcia Elena 

Email: 

Keywords: Slash, M/K, Krycek's POV 

Spoilers: Tunguska 

Rating: R 

Summary: A night spent in the cell in Tunguska. 

Written for the 10th Lyric Wheel, the 'Literary Wheel', November 2002. 

Disclaimer: Mulder and Krycek are not mine. 

Author's notes: Writer's block sucks. I just hope my story doesn't. Thank you very much to Pollyanna for extending the deadline. ::bows at her feet:: Thank you to Deb for the two awesome quotes; I ended up writing based on both of them. Hee! 

For Logan. 

* * *

Impatiens   
by Marcia Elena 

Don't touch me again. 

The words hang in the air between us, and I almost regret saying them. It's cold in here, and the motherfuckers took my coat. I'm freezing, and the thing that usually helps to keep me warm in situations like these -- thinking about Mulder -- doesn't work when I have the real thing sitting across from me and glowering at me. 

He keeps quiet, though, and so I do too. I try not to look at him, my eyes sliding over every inch of the walls, the small barred window, the ceiling, the floor. But there's nothing there to hold my interest, just the promise of more cold as the day wanes and the light coming into the cell dwindles and dies. I shut my eyes against the night, black replacing black, and the shiver that runs through me then has nothing to do with the low temperature. 

I remember -- 

  * darkness, slick and inhuman, moving over me -- 
  * reaching inside me, unfolding -- 
  * deep so deep deeper everywhere, don't -- 



I come to with a start. 

Don't touch me. 

I squeeze my eyes, blood throbbing in my head and pulsing beneath my closed lids. Something in me can feel the oil's proximity in this place, almost as if it's calling me. As if it knows I'm here. 

Human voices here and there, small cracks of sound in the all pervading silence. Fear, loneliness echoing through these walls. Yet the sounds of terror help keep me focused, reminding me that I'm not alone here, this is not the silo. Not my voice calling for help. And when guards burst into the cell next to ours and drag its denizen out screaming, I hang on to the screams, using them to banish my own terrors. 

I am not alone. Not alone. Mulder is here, with me. Here. 

With me. 

Mulder. 

Gooseflesh ripples over me. 

I open my eyes. Even in the dark I can see him huddled in a corner, panic evident in his bent frame. 

He's gonna break. 

Fuck. 

I creep towards him, slowly, not wanting to startle him. I touch his shoulder tentatively, and he shies away from me, pressing himself further into the corner, as if trying to crawl into the wall. I touch him again, murmuring softly, steadily, "It's me, Mulder, it's Alex. It's gonna be all right, I'm here, I'm here, I've got you..." 

I don't know what horror he is reliving, but some time in the middle of my litany I seem to break through to him, and he clings to me, burying his face on my neck, his breath hot and erratic against me. 

"Krycek," he rumbles, his lips moving against my skin. His hands clench on my shoulders, and he traces a path up the pulse point on my neck, rubs his cheek against mine, the rasp of beard stubble drawing a small cry out of me. "Alex," he whispers in my ear. His voice breaks on my name, as if it were a shard of glass embedded in his throat. 

My breath hitches in mine. 

Wings in the pit of my stomach, fluttering wildly. The pads of his fingers trail heat as they slide down my back, this barest of touches making me burn with desire and need. He stops at the small of my back, both of us trembling. Stops and looks at me, holding me captive with his eyes. 

Touch me. 

Oh please Mulder. Please touch me. 

Snatching the hem of my shirt, he pulls it up and over my head, taking my mouth in a fierce kiss and leaning his weight on me, pushing us both down onto the floor. His fingers clutch at me, trying to find purchase in my nearly hairless scalp. Finally he settles by grabbing my head on both sides. "Stupid-ass haircut," he growls. "Why did you do it, Alex?" he asks, kissing me again. "Why? Whywhywhywhy- ?" 

He pulls a sob out of me with his frantic murmuring, his next kiss so desperate I can't stop myself from babbling, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh please Mulder I'm sorry." And fuck, what the hell am I apologizing for? I do what I think I should, what I think is right. 

Don't I? 

Our hands tug at our clothes, urgent and careless, stripping off every layer until we're skin to skin, breath to breath, nothing between us but want, no longer denied. And here on this filthy floor, here in this dark damp cell in this arid frigid place warmth is suddenly present, and color, so much color, so bright and achingly beautiful, all the shades between hazel and green as we lock gazes and mouths and limbs, as he sinks deep into me, the way it was always supposed to be, filling me with a hurt so unbearable it is more than pain, more than pleasure, more, and I turn to gold in his hands, flowing molten beneath him. I wrap my legs around his waist, bringing him deeper into me, but not deep enough. It could never be deep enough. 

He is brutal one instant and tender the next, as if he can't decide what he's feeling. Mulder, I pray, surrendering myself, worshiping him with my body. Wash me clean, Mulder, split me open, make me bleed. 

Slick with sweat, we slide together, creating our own rhythm, our own borrowed piece of eternity. 

At length I sense it, the tensing in our bodies, the shift in our pace. He raises his head and looks at me, lips parted, breath ragged, and I see it, feel the scream bubbling in his throat. We can't, I can't let him, that would alert the guards and then things would turn very ugly very fast. At the last moment I pull his head down to me, clamp my mouth on his. And he comes, pouring heat into me, releasing his almost-scream down my throat, liquid vibrations passing through me and spilling out as orgasm seizes me as well. 

We hold on to one another, silent and shaking. We smell of sweat, of sex, of each other. And of too many other things I am afraid to call by name. 

He falls asleep on top of me, still inside me. I reach for his sweater on the floor and spread it over him, knowing we can't stay like this, unwilling to let go. He whimpers in his sleep and my arms tighten around him. 

I plant a kiss on his hair, gently shushing him. 

It's gonna be all right, Mulder. 

I've got you. 

* * *

"Each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." 

Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray 

* * *

"Hey this is terrific!" Zaphod said. "Someone down there is trying to kill us!" 

"Terrific," said Arthur. 

"But don't you see what this means?" 

"Yes. We are going to die." 

"Yes, but apart from that." 

"APART from that?" 

"It means we must be on to something!" 

"How soon can we get off it?" 

Zaphod and Arthur 

The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy, Douglas Adams   
  

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Marcia Elena


End file.
